Page 48 of Cold Front
But our kitchen? A goddamn disaster zone. Pancake batter streaked across the counter, flour dusted the floor like fresh snow, and there was syrup in places syrup should never be.
Maybe that morning had started as an excuse to spend time with him. But standing here, side by side in our messy kitchen, it felt like more than that.
And I wasn’t sure what to do with that feeling.
I huffed out a breath, surveying the mess. “Okay, okay. Truce. We clean before someone—probably me—slips and dies in a tragic breakfast-related accident.”
Niall let out a low chuckle, grabbing a rag. “That’d be one hell of a way to go.”
I snorted, bending to grab the paper towels. “At least I’d die doing what I love. Cooking. Eating. Creating absolute chaos.”
He smirked, shaking his head as he wiped batter off the counter. We worked in sync, side by side, sweeping up flour, rinsing bowls, putting things back where they belonged. The easy banter from earlier softened into something quieter, something… comfortable.
“You always cook this much?” Niall asked after a moment, his voice more curious than teasing.
“Not really. I mean, I like it. Grew up watching my mom cook a lot.” I scraped leftover batter into the trash, shrugging. “She always said homemade food was how you showed people you cared. And, I don’t know, I guess it stuck.”
Niall was quiet for a beat, like he was actually considering that. “That why you asked me to do this?”
I glanced over at him, our hands both reaching for the same plate in the sink. Our fingers brushed.
I swallowed. “I think I just wanted to spend time with you.”
His hand stilled for half a second before he grabbed the sponge, scrubbing harder than necessary.
For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t say anything. That I’d pushed too much. But then?—
“My mom used to cook too,” he said, voice rougher now, like the words weren’t easy for him.
I looked over at him, a little startled. Niall wasn’t the kind of guy who opened up about anything, not really. The fact that he was sharing this with me—something that clearly mattered—meant more than I could say. It was touching. And it said a lot… that maybe he trusted me. Even if just a little.
“She made real meals, you know?” He kept his focus on the dish in his hands. “Even on nights when she was exhausted. She always said food was supposed to make people feel at home.”
My chest ached. “She sounds a lot like my mom.”
He didn’t say anything, but his jaw tightened, and I knew he was holding something back. I didn’t push.
I wiped my hands on a dish towel, watching him carefully. “Guess that explains why you looked at pancake batter like it was an alien life form.”
That earned me a smirk. “Hey, I’m learning.”
“Yeah, yeah, and at this rate, you might even be able to make toast without burning it.”
He flicked water at me, rolling his eyes. But there was something lighter in his expression. Like maybe letting himself have fun for once hadn’t been the worst thing in the world.
And that felt… significant.
CHAPTER18
NIALL
Sitting across from Eli, fork in hand, I still couldn’t believe we’d gotten here. Less than friendly—that was one way to describe how I’d been toward him when he first showed up at Michigan U. Closed off. Guarded. And now?
Now, I was eating breakfast with him, the same guy I’d grumbled at just weeks ago, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
It wasn’t just the food, though the butter- and maple-syrup-topped pancakes were pretty damn good, even if I was still skeptical about his whole ‘Cooking is love’ philosophy. It was… everything else. The way the conversation flowed, easy and unforced. The way Eli smiled like this was exactly how he’d planned his morning to go.
The way I noticed things about him.
